Of Celery and Sardines
by NuthatchXi
Summary: "The withered produce lay in various stages of rigor mortis." A spunky goth and a hotshot cop cross paths when an armed assailant interrupts their attempts at grocery shopping. Because Tony plus Abby plus expired vegetables plus flying bullets just equals fun. Pre-Series. Drama, Humor, Tony!Whump. (Set before AQOH.)
1. Celery and Sardines

Disclaimer: I still don't own them. Pity, that.

**Story notes**: **This is set before a Question of Honor, while Tony is a police officer in Peoria. You do NOT need to read any of my other stories to understand this one.**

Chapter warnings: None

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"_Hard to call it a party without sardines."_

― Brandon Mull, _The Candy Shop War_

"_Never miss a party...good for the nerves—like celery_."

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, _Gatsby Girls_

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Abby jumped down the half-crumbling sidewalk, landing one-legged—then both-legged, then one-legged again—on every single last crack. She'd always loved hopscotch—so much so that she periodically sketched a version in her driveway and gleefully disregarded the raised brows of her neighbors.

Of course, that might have had something to with the fact that she drew colorful skulls and organs in place of hopscotch squares.

Abby landed solidly on both feet, narrowly missing a tiny dandelion stubbornly growing through a fissure in the concrete. "Sorry, little sunshiny taraxacum," she apologized cheerfully. It didn't seem to understand she was addressing it—perhaps it wasn't accustomed to its formal Latin name—but she fancied it nodded back to her just the same, so as not to be rude. Anyway, nothing, not even a rather aloof flower, could dampen her mood today.

She was on an _adventure_.

Abby stood and gazed around her triumphantly, Gothic attire in striking contrast to the old-fashioned brick buildings surrounding her. Peoria was interesting. Granted, pretty much _anywhere_ was interesting if you looked at it long enough, but not everywhere had The National Center for Agricultural Utilization Research, which was almost as fun to say as it was to visit.

It had been a gloriously science-y day, and a wonderful start to her vacation—even though Gibbs had just blinked at her discouragingly when she announced her intended destination. In Gibbsspeak, that meant something like bewilderment, but she was perfectly happy to bewilder people so long as they loved her anyway.

Her stomach grumbled explosively, interrupting her satisfied perusal of her surroundings. She patted it encouragingly. "There, there, little fellow." Standing one-legged, like a stork—sometimes she made decisions better that way—Abby contemplated the long afternoon shadows, and the possibility of an early dinner.

A snack, she decided. But what, and where?

Her eyes lit upon a tiny little grocery across the street. Its neon sign dangled sideways, letters flickering as violently as a strobe light.

Perfect. It had character.

And if it had too much character, she had pepper spray.

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One day, he would be able to afford food from somewhere other than Harvey's 24-Hour Groceries.

Tony DiNozzo, Cop Extraordinaire™, stared dolefully at the floppy, artificially orange sliced cheese he had in his hand. He'd eaten cheap grilled cheese every dinner for the last week, paired with equally regrettable canned green beans. But with student loans still to pay off, it was one simple way to cut costs.

The cheese wobbled unappealingly.

Glaring, Tony shoved it back into the glass cooler, and wandered over to the other side of the aisle, where withered produce lay in various stages of rigor mortis. A pair of bruised, long-past-prime tomatoes goggled at him, oozing faintly pinkish pulp from around their stems.

"No, Marcus, you can't have a lollipop. Courtney, can't you distract him?" Tony escaped from the tomatoes' horrifying gaze, attention drawn to the domestic drama playing out by the counter. A middle-aged woman, graying hair pinned flat to her scalp, fumbled with an armful of food, as her husband stood by, arms just managing to encompass a large package of toilet paper. Two children—a pint-sized boy in overalls, just tall enough to tug incessantly on his mother's elbow, and a slim, straggly-haired girl of perhaps eight—milled around their parents' feet.

The girl, presumably Courtney, was starting distractedly in the vague direction of the aisles. With a jolt of dismay, Tony realized she was looking at _him_. He grinned in what he hoped was an appeasing sort of way—children were hazardous, and fragile, and easily upset, and God only knew what you were supposed to do with them—and ducked farther down the aisle.

It was thanks to this evasive maneuver that he missed the entrance of the Goth girl. He did hear the emphatic jingle that singled someone new; only a deaf person could have missed it, so enthusiastic was the sound. But he was half afraid that the inquisitive kid might follow him, so he didn't look up until the steady thump of boots on linoleum signaled that someone rather taller had stopped beside him.

_Whoa_.

Pale fingers tipped with black nail polish, and topped with an oddly massive peridot ring, wrapped firmly around a can of sardines. Equally pale wrists, encircled by studded black leather wrist bands, traveled up to a t-shirt that warned "Radio Active Rabbit—I Mutate!" in lime green cursive. A tiny black and green schoolgirl-style skirt revealed impossibly long-legs extending into knee-high combat boots.

He'd never seen anyone quite like her. For starters, the girl was _hot_. But not hot like most of the women Tony pursued—rather, hot like a ghost pepper, which would probably cause his lips to blister if he were stupid enough to kiss it. On the other hand, there was something oddly innocent about her face as she concentrated on the vegetables before her, biting one maroon lip. And as for the startlingly girlish jet-black pigtails—

Fascinated, he stared at them.

Suddenly, he became aware of an answering stare. She'd noticed him. Her eyes were an almost eerie pale green, lit with disconcerting amber highlights. After a second, the girl's expression darkened.

Apparently, she didn't appreciate being goggled at.

_Oops._

"I wouldn't get that if I were you," Tony blurted, just to say something. He gestured at the sickly celery she held in her hand.

Her eyebrows vanished behind her bangs. "I like vegetables," she responded in a tone clearly intended to imply that he'd do well to try them sometime.

Yikes, the girl had fangs. But he was always perfectly prepared to be argumentative. "That's not a vegetable. It's a—plant corpse."

She promptly shoved a whole handful into a produce bag. "I like dead things," she whispered, widening her eyes.

He was fairly certain that she was joking, and that she was deliberately trying to creep him out—a fragile conviction that just barely kept him from actually backing away. "That would explain why you're buying sardines." Tony grinned, turning his DiNozzometer from Argumentative-But-Friendly a few notches to Endearingly-Teasing. "Have you ever eaten one of those things? Ugh."

The girl's expression remained unimpressed.

Huh. Perhaps he should have tried Devastatingly-Charming-And-Faintly-Self-Deprecating instead.

"Yes," she challenged, hands suddenly on her hips. "Have _you_?"

Unfortunately, he had. Abruptly, Tony flashed back to silent, formal DiNozzo dinners, spent picking at salads topped with the oily fish, as the tension built until his father finally exploded with frustration.

Tony pulled himself from the dark reflection almost immediately, but as he tried to formulate a proper response—a rant about how sardines polluted The Divine Nectar of Pizza, perhaps—his eyes lit on a figure approaching the store. The man was perfectly ordinary looking, with short-cropped brunet hair and a navy windbreaker, but something about him set the cop's intuition on edge.

The Gothic girl was saying something, but Tony froze, his attention locked as the man pulled open the door, and reached into his pocket—

At the familiar motion, split-second instinct took over.

"_Get down!_" Tony roared, tackling his companion.

The crack of bullets deafened thought.

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Chapter notes: Hi again, everyone! We're in for a wild ride. Oh, goodness, it's fun being in Abby's head. I get to be completely batty. And then, of course, Tony's equally nuts in his own way.

Let me know if you enjoyed!


	2. Grocery Carts and Potato Chips

**Chapter warnings: Violence, mild language. Content may upset some readers!**

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"_The grocery store is the great equalizer where mankind comes to grips with the facts of life like toilet tissue_." — Joseph Goldberg

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Abby was thoroughly nettled.

The young man across from her had been _gawking _at her attire—like she was some sort of zoo animal. With his heathered gray Ohio State t-shirt, artfully faded jeans, and softly falling brown hair, he was unerringly, irredeemably, normal. Such a jock. He'd probably never dated anyone but bimbo cheerleaders in his entire life. Worse, in an effort to annoy him she'd committed herself to buying a bag's worth of past-due celery, and _that_ was hard to forgive. Finally, to add insult to injury, he was one of the handsomest men she'd ever seen. In her life.

And he looked like he knew it.

He was trying to charm her, with his stupid, insulting talk about dead things and sardines and his stupid, perfect smile. Well, she _wasn't_ charmed—not even a little bit!—and she doubted he'd ever been adventuresome enough to try _salsa_, much less a sardine.

"Have you ever eaten one of those things?" He was asking, shuddering theatrically. "Ugh."

How dare he be funny. "Yes, I have. Have _you_?"

The radiant smile faltered. His blue-green eyes grew suddenly distant, unseeing.

The jock looked almost..._sad_. Abby experienced a spurt of confused guilt. He was supposed to argue back, and prove his obnoxiousness, not crumple in the face of a hardly crushing query!

But his facial expression was morphing strangely, hardening into something like razor focus. He wasn't even looking at her anymore, Abby realized, puzzled.

Curiosity got the better of her dislike. "What are you—"

The man's eyes widened. "_Get down_!"

It was a shout. Out of nowhere, his body slammed her sideways and onto the floor, flattening the breath out of her lungs. Large hands clapped over her ears, but not hard enough to block out the blistering _crackcrackcrack_ of bullets and a woman's keening scream.

Almost as soon as it started, it was over.

Except it wasn't. Sounds of children crying filtered through the ringing in her ears. Too stunned to move, Abby lay perfectly still as her protector fumbled rapidly in his pocket, still firmly in his role as a human shield. He flipped out a cellphone, pressing a button—and then cursed under his breath, the words explosive.

"Everybody off the floor!" An unfamiliar male voice boomed. "You there, in the aisle—get over here before I blow your heads off!"

Abby's companion rolled off of her, and extended a hand to her. "I'm a cop," he whispered as he pulled her upright; lips barely moving, the sound barely audible. "Just stay calm."

A cop?

Abby barely had a chance to process that as she took in the scene before her. All was quiet chaos. A mother and father wrapped their arms protectively around their two children. Abandoned groceries—cans of baby food, a shattered pickle jar, an entire watermelon—lay where they had fallen in the panic. The cashier, an middle-eastern-looking man with wide brown eyes and smooth dark hair, trembled, hands in the air. An older gentleman, perhaps sixty—a trucker, from the look of him—had flattened himself against a display of potato chips.

The shooter was massive—at least 6'2, and built like a tank. A hawk-like nose dominated an otherwise ordinary face. Squinty brown eyes and slightly long mouth twitched in tandem every few second—a nervous tic. His pistol pointed straight up at the ceiling. Three bullet holes in a perfect triangle shape adorned the ceiling; the result of the earlier noise.

No one was shot. Yet. Abby realized that she was clutching her sardines and celery with a white-knuckled grip, as though they were lifelines to safety. But she couldn't seem to stop. She was a forensic scientist. She worked on _homicides_. She saw the results of brutality all the time.

But it was nothing, she found, when compared to actually being in peril.

"I've jammed your cellphones," the assailant intoned, sounding almost bored. "You won't be able to call for help. Don't try anything. I don't have problems blasting out a little girl's brains to make you all behave." The father moaned, a deadened, guttural noise. The stranger smiled faintly. Warningly. "Don't make me do that."

Black hatred welled in Abby's breast, crawling to get out. He was a _monster_.

"You're all going to stand here, nice and quiet, while Pranav and I have a little chat." He lowered his gun to point at the wordlessly shaking cashier. "See, the real reason we all get to have this little gathering is down to him. Isn't that right, Pranav?"

Suddenly, Abby remembered the pepper spray in her purse. Slowly, she lowered her groceries to the floor.

But did she dare use it?

"See, Pranav here doesn't know how to pay his debts. I helped him move to our great country, but he just doesn't understand how this works." For a moment, he adopted a heavily accented voice. "'I just need more time! My wife, she is sick!' I'm a patient man, but it's been months since the last payment. What about _my_ wife?"

"Please," Pranav begged, in quiet, accented tones. "I can get you the next payment, I swear—"

The criminal's mouth tightened, the same muscle twitching in his jaw. "See, now, I don't like that," he said almost conversationally. "Again with the pleading and the lies. It's a little _late_ for that. Now it's time for a reckoning." The man took a step forward, gun held steady.

Horror peaked in Abby's throat. He was going to murder the cashier, right in front of her eyes! This could _not _be allowed to happen.

Acting on pure impulse, she yanked her pepper spray out of her purse and darted forward.

A hand solid as iron blocked her lifted arm, gripping her wrist and twisting it behind her back so cruelly that she cried out. The pepper spray can clattered to the ground, spinning out of control.

Cold metal met her forehead. "That was very, very stupid, little lady."

Abby's mouth wobbled. The world shrank to encompass the feel of this moment; the goose bumps lifting on her skin, the cloying onion smell of her attacker's breath; the cocoa hue of his narrow eyes. She was going to die. Her mind sprang to her brother, her parents, and finally Gibbs, who hadn't wanted her to go to Peoria in the first place. Her throat tightened. _I'm sorry_.

"I told her to do it," a familiar, quick voice announced, filling the air with cocky charm. "Sorry, man. Just wanted to see what you'd do."

The grip on her wrist loosened just slightly; her captor was distracted.

"That was really fast reaction time," the confusing jock-defender-cop continued, sounding slightly closer. "You're good. What are you, ex-special forces or something? I'm Tony, by the way. What's your name?"

A snort. Suddenly she was released. A shove sent her flying, landing and skidding backwards on the floor. "Well, look at that everyone." The rough voice softened, holding their attention without effort. "We have ourselves _two_ heroes. I'll tell you what, Tony, why don't you go pick up that pepper spray and bring it to me. Try anything and I'll shoot someone."

Tony, if that was his real name, lifted his hands placatingly. "Alright," he said easily, stepping forward. Slowly, he reached for the can—

"Grab it from the bottom," the gunman snapped.

Tony did so, and slowly approached.

The can was snatched from his grip.

"Good. You _can_ follow instructions. But just as a reminder—"

The back end of the pistol lashed out, slamming the young man clear across the face. Tony's head snapped sideways. A low grunt was the only sign he'd been hurt.

"Now—back up. Go sit with your girlfriend."

The cop did as he was told.

"There will be no more stupid rebellions. You, there. Yes, you there, with the kids." He gestured at the father. "Come here."

"Daddy," the little girl wailed as her parent pulled away. The mother clapped a shaking hand over the child's mouth, choking back a sob herself.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Consider this a lesson in how actions have consequences." The criminal's predatory eyes locked on Abby's. "Never forget this."

As the father stepped forward, the gunman lifted up the pepper spray, and shot a stream straight into his eyes.

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Tony's insides churned as the victim yelled, the raw agony in the sound shattering what was left of his inner composure. Both children were crying now, and fury built in his chest at the dejected sounds.

Even if they made it out alive, they'd carry the trauma with them their entire life. _No, not if_, he thought determinedly. _When_. He'd get that family out of here if it killed him.

Despite his bold thoughts, Tony's face throbbed tenderly, a reminder of just how fully he was out of his depth. This was _bad_. No backup, no gun, no phone; and in his years as a cop, he'd never yet had to deal with a hostage situation. Up until this moment, he'd been searching, hunting for some sort of in—some way to get inside the guy's head—but the Goth girl's ill-timed bravery had shattered any hope of the gunman seeing him as an ally.

Speaking of which...Tony chanced a glance at his spunky companion, still huddled where she'd been shoved.

Tears were streaming down her face.

"Hey," he whispered under cover of the yelling, touching her shoulder. "What's your name?"

She stared at him, red-rimmed eyes haunted. Black eyeliner smeared under her eyes, giving her a ghoulish look. "Abby," she whispered.

Such an ordinary name, for such an astonishing individual.

He wanted to reminder her what she surely on some level must know. That the events weren't her fault. That evil men did evil things, and good people suffered. But there was no time for comfort. The easy brutality of the man's act had told him all he needed to know.

"Abby. When I move, you get everyone else out the door. Alright?"

Wide-eyed, she executed a barely perceptible nod.

The yelling quieted to a whimper too soon, leaving Tony's "alright" just audible.

"Looks like we've got some whispering over there." The gunman's mouth thinned. _Twitch_. He shook his head. "I'm getting tired of this. Have you got something to share with the class, Tony?"

Now or never.

Tony rose, puffing out his chest arrogantly. He flashed his most obnoxious smile. In for a penny...

"Yeah, actually. You've got a booger, right about...there. Sorry."

The gunmen rubbed under his nose, squinty eyes narrowing. Twitch. Twitch. "Funny guy," he said after a moment. "Unfortunately for you, I don't like funny guys. That's two strikes against you. Come here."

Tony heaved a gusty sigh. "Come here, go back, come here—I feel like a human yo-yo. Is that how you always treat people? Cause I've got to say, I think it's the source of a few of your problems."

Someone inhaled sharply. The room held its breath, waiting for the explosion.

_Never mind skydiving,_ Tony thought giddly, somewhere in the part of his mind that wasn't quietly freaking out at his own brazenness. _Adrenaline junkies should try_ this_ on for size_.

The voice hardened, a promise of execution. "Get up here or I shoot their mother next."

Rolling his eyes, Tony did as he was told. Under the cover of his insolent demeanor, his heart beat fit to burst. This wasn't exactly how he'd planned to make his exit from this life.

But then, life had always liked to laugh at his expectations.

The only regret that came to mind at the moment was that he wished he'd gone ahead and ordered pizza yesterday instead of making that damned grilled cheese. Again.

The stranger lowered the barrel of the gun until it hovered a scant half-inch from his forehead.

Tony shifted a hair forward. Only a quarter inch, now. "There's just one thing I think you should know before you shoot me."

"And what's that?" The criminal asked with what appeared to be grim curiosity. He let the gun touch.

"Did you know your fly's down?"

The gunman's gaze flicked downwards reflexively—just a fraction of a second's distraction. But it was enough.

Tony's arms flew up in an x-shape, left hand pinning the trigger finger and wrist, right hand closing on the barrel and twisting it towards the ceiling. A shot rang out, so loud near his ear that the world rang unbearably. He was conscious of scurrying movement around him—whether Abby had galvanized the rest to flee, he couldn't know, but _something_ was happening—

But the gun was only partly in his control, and his opponent was larger. Stronger. Frantic, Tony stomped on a foot, but the angle was bad, the strike weak. Worse, the man's other hand was still free. A meaty fist slammed solidly into his cheekbone, sending shockwaves of pain rippled through his skull. Tony clung to the pistol, keeping it pointed upwards, and prayed to whoever was overseeing this travesty of a shopping trip that everyone else was out by now.

_Slam_. The strike nailed the hollow just to the side of his right eye. His vision swam. His grip started to loosen. The gun lowered. The next blow landed on his jaw, jarring his brain; then—with only slightly lessened force—the gunman buried his fist in Tony's eye.

Multi-color fireworks exploded, as his grip on reality faltered. His whole skull was a mass of pain. Tony hung with every fiber of his being. But he was losing the fight, and _damnit,_ _DiNozzos do not pass out_, but another strike and his body was going to have other ideas—

Another punch landed on his jaw. Tony's legs gave way, his vision darkening.

Suddenly the gunman shouted, staggering. He jolted to the side. The gun went flying, escaping from both of their grasps as neatly as if a giant hand had plucked it.

Tony dropped to his knees, watching in uncomprehending amazement as a grocery cart plowed into his opponent yet again. A dark-haired avenging angel, face screwed up in rage, charged forward with her weapon yet again.

_Abby?_

But the man was not be dissuaded. He grabbed the shopping cart with both hands, and dragged it out of her hands, sending it speeding towards the back of the store. An open-handed strike left Abby reeling, colliding with the counter; knocking a display of gum clean off the counter.

Why hadn't she _run_? Tony struggled unsuccessfully to stand. He—had to—

Abby dealt with, the gunman stalked forward.

His sudden, brutal kick knocked Tony's chin backward, and Tony himself into oblivion.

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Chapter Notes: A few notes on gun defense, just in the interest of general safety: Tony was right to wait until the gun touched. The trigger-pulling reflex is incredibly fast, so unless your body knows exactly where the gun is by contact, you'll almost certainly get your brains blown out before you can successfully point it away from you. So...on the off-chance you're ever in a similar circumstance, maybe that knowledge will help you.

A perfectly executed version of the move I described would have left Tony in solid possession of the gun, but fortunately even a partially effective version gets the gun pointing away from you and the people around you. (BTW, I've never had a real gun pointed at me; but I gained my second black belt under an ex-prison-guard, sixth-dan black belt who grew up in the Ypsilanti ghetto. You learn some things. ;))

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